Flammable
by aerodynamics
Summary: Your mouth wouldn't turn sour every time you think of him.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own; I borrow.  
**Author's Note:** Flames are welcome. It was intended to be a one-shot, but I see something of a plot here. And it is slash. I would hope you'd point out any mistakes. This is a product of writing under the influence and is dedicated to a whole whack of people. Reviews would be great!

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**Chapter One| Indecision **

It's always so much harder to look at things in a forward order. As you sit down, your feet propped on the coffee table, you decide to start thinking backwards. The sun streaks in through the open window, making you squint, and you wish everything worked backwards. From bad-to-good instead of good-to-bad because at least you could've left off on some semblance of a happy note that way. Your mouth wouldn't turn sour every time you think of him.

He never used to taste that way. The first time your tongue slipped behind his teeth, he was sweet. The cola made his spit sticky, thick with nothing but sugar and a hint of nicotine. It ignited a craving that pulsed through to the tips of your fingers, and he let you touch him in ways he shouldn't have. Nobody should touch anyone the way you two did. It was desperate and greedy, and you still can't understand why. He wasn't supposed to be okay with that; you weren't even supposed to have your hands on him.

It was all those weeks of you gawking at him that got you both to that point. You were constantly trying to hide it, but he could feel your eyes on him, even when you were pretending to be oh-so-focused on something else. And who's to say he didn't fucking like it? All the times he could've called you out on staring, but he never did. He's always been a sucker for a little extra attention, you just didn't think he'd let it get that far. You never would've pegged him for the type; although, you've always been suspicious. And it almost scared you when your suspicion proved to hold some truth. Because after a while, he started staring _back_.

That's when you knew something wasn't right. After Sandy, he practically dated half of Tulsa's female population. None of those broads were his type, but that didn't stop him. And he finally snapped when he couldn't find what he was looking for. You commended him for trying so vigilantly to fill the void Sandy left, but you also had to remind him that she was one of a kind—that girls like her came along every once in a blue moon. All the while you wondered if there was something more to his searching, but you, of all people, didn't have the balls to ask. Even though you stared, and he stared back, it was just that. It was _staring._

But that didn't mean you couldn't try to get something more out of him. You baited him along, planted a seed that weeded through his brain and broke him apart. His foundations split. You took advantage of that every way you knew how, and it was _so, so, so_ wrong, but there wasn't any doubt in your mind he would've done the same. Maybe if he hadn't made it so easy, you would've exercised some self-control. All you had to do was promise him everything he was missing, and he was all over you. The only thing you left out was that you were lying. There was nothing you could give him because you didn't have it.

Eventually, when you both got sick of heated make-out sessions during the half hour you got for lunch, you took him home. He stopped you when you started leading him outside his narrow comfort zone, and it made you wonder if he was into it as much as you were. You didn't think it would take so long for him to let you fuck him into the mattress. Then he claimed he didn't like it, so you were back to all that over-the-clothes bullshit you started with. Although it was fine, it wasn't enough. He didn't move as fast as you did—he couldn't keep up.

There must have been some sort of malfunction in your brain because you actually waited for him. Albeit, you tried your damnedest to hurry the process along, but you still _waited. _That's when you started feeling guilty—he was never going to touch another woman again, and that was your fault. The only person he was going to want was you. As your name melted from the tip of his tongue, your fate was suddenly sealed. There wasn't going to be any more Evie.

At least you thought there wasn't. You and he weren't anything exclusive, only casual. When he was stressed and you were stressed. Or when your date went wrong and his date went wrong. Things got especially heavy when you were too drunk to stand, but sitting made you sick. Then it seemed like everything was wrong, and since he was always there and always seemed to have it hard up for you, you figured you'd try and make it all right. Spit is Mother Nature's band-aid, and he always seemed broken.

But maybe that was you. All this "casual" sex wasn't so casual after a while. Whenever Roger kicked you out, you were at his place. And when Lacy was on your ass about smoking in the house, you used it as an excuse to spend the night with him. Because you were _stressed, _and he was _there, _and that was all the reason you needed to justify sliding into bed with him. On top of that, he made it easy. And he knew you were weak to the temptations he subtly placed in front of you.

Now you think it's ironic how backwards this is. The rift between you keeps on growing, threatening to tear the world in half. While it eats at you, it's necessary. You keep having this reoccurring dream, one where he's dead and you're not far behind. There's that war, and you haven't checked the mail in God knows how long because you're afraid. You wouldn't survive that; you couldn't kill someone.

And you'd have to stop this thing you have with Soda. The thought nearly makes you nauseous. You'll have wasted so much time and effort on him. All the nights you spent tangled together, waiting for the rain to let up long enough for one of you to make your way home. You were usually the one trekking back to your place at some ungodly hour of the morning because he had a hard time getting away most nights. And the streets weren't safe at that hour. A few blocks were the difference between living and dying. Nobody was going to miss you if some asshole sliced you for the paper in your wallet, but things just wouldn't have been the same if it was him.

Sighing, you wash a hand over your face and settle into the couch. He's mulling around somewhere, either trying to throw himself together or change his clothes for the umpteenth time since you showed up because he does that when he's nervous. He doesn't want you to find a flaw because he's worried you'll change your mind. But once you're set on something, you're set on something, and you're pretty set on him. Most of the time.

Sometimes, when you have him slammed face-first into the bed, you wonder how much longer you can keep doing this. Sure, you might like the way he clings to you, and you've grow to enjoy the way he lets his teeth tear into you, but even having him like that isn't enough. He doesn't hold your interest like he used to. You know how he feels, what he sounds like, and how he tastes, and there isn't much more to him than that.

Now he just tastes sour. That's partially your fault; you've sucked the life out of him. Everything you've done has led up to this moment—the deciding factor that may make your cosmos just a little more center if the weather permits.

You don't even know why you're having second thoughts. It's a little late for reservations—you've told him as much. But this isn't going to last forever, and you're not sure you really want to wait for it to end. It's better to stop it yourself. At least then you can pretend it was mutual, and when you start waking up alone next week, you can pretend like it doesn't hurt. Going without him might be more wrong than being with him, even though you keep thinking about what a waste this all is. Those stupid little moments you knew you shouldn't have shared are making letting go harder than it should be.

You want this to be over, but you don't know how you're going to tell him. Telling him you're not into it anymore isn't going to cut it because that's not in your repertoire. He knows you aren't a quitter—you simply misguide yourself into thinking there's a problem when there isn't. And then you think that the only way to fix it is to stop what started it. But you don't even know what _it _is.

It could be all this guilt and confusion pooling in your gut. Whatever is wrong is your fault because you started this. You got yourself into this mess. He was just along for the ride. Now he thinks you're something serious—that you're going to buckle down and this can start to be exclusive. He will finally push you that one step further, and once you get there, there's no turning back. No matter how badly you want that, it can't happen. You won't let it because it's not meant to turn out like that.

"I booked tomorrow off."

You curl your toes inside your shoes and grin bitterly. "Way to think ahead." You raise an eyebrow and look at him, and it's like everything comes crashing together. You're the only person he cleans up for, and it takes him hours. At times you're not sure if you're flattered or disgusted.

He pushes his hair out of his face and leans against the door frame. "You didn't, did you?"

"I didn't plan on bein' with you for more than a few hours," you tell him dryly. "Wasn't aware this was an all night affair."

Because when you talked to him at work, he didn't say anything about either of you sticking around after. The only thing he mentioned was the Nightly Double, a bottle of vodka, and maybe checking out that race he bet half his paycheck on. Everyone knows Shepard's outfit has the whole damn thing rigged. The Kings don't have a hope in hell. He wouldn't listen to you when you told him.

"It usually is, ain't it?"

Well, he does have you there. Except you can't afford to take tomorrow off. So you shrug and lick your lips, feigning indifference. He knows you aren't into all this pussyfooting around—you just want to take him to bed. That's why he wants to go out. He's hopeful while you're trying to find a way to end this. It isn't fair; he's trying so hard.

"Maybe I'm not into wasting the entire night with you," you say. His face falls, but you continue on like you didn't notice. "Unlike you, I still have a girlfriend to pay attention to."

And whether he wants to believe it or not, he isn't the most important thing in the world. But you keep that to yourself because he'll call you out on being a liar. Anything to make yourself feel better.

"You know who's fault that is, right?" He narrows his eyes and stiffens, looking for all the world like he wants to strangle you. If he was smart then he would, but there's a reason he dropped out of school. "You've had more than enough time to break up with her."

"And let you have me all to yourself?" you snicker. "Yeah right."

Instead of snapping at you like you expect him to, he shrugs and digs into his pocket for his smokes. "Like I said, you've had time."

You push yourself up from the couch and start toward the door, knowing you have the rest of the night to come up with a way to tell him it's over. All of this is just so pointless—you were stupid for thinking this would last. But unlike him, you have somebody waiting on you.

And you'll owe her an explanation.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.  
Author's Note: It's been a while since I've updated anything, and I apologize. Hopefully this makes up for it. I would hope you'd point out any and all mistakes. As always, reviews are appreciated!

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**Two| Knowing**

The guilt is really starting to set in. The Nightly Double was a bad idea. He's doing that thing with his hands you like, and if he was any better at this—at flicking his tongue against oversensitive areas of skin and causing a euphoric friction beneath his palm—then you'd have to call bullshit. After exactly five minutes and thirty-two seconds of being stretched out and exposed under him, your stamina has deserted you like you knew it would.

You can only remember two or three other times he's had his mouth on you like this, using it for something other than talking. He's apologizing because he knows he's done something wrong, but regardless of how sorry he might be, this is typical. You were _expecting_ it. This is how he keeps you both together—by reminding you why you're with him. As far as you can bring yourself to be concerned, it's for the sex and that's all. Anything else and he might start thinking he means something to you. And you just can't have that.

He'll only get so far before he starts to choke, but you can feel him breathing against your lower stomach, and it just feels so _natural. _As you fist at his hair, forgetting to breathe, you hate him. He's manipulating you, trying to make you forget why you're so mad at him, and it's working. You thought your mind was made up—you were damn fucking sure of it. You've never been easily swayed, but he has you thinking that maybe you don't need to end anything. Since he wants you all the time, and you want him maybe a third of the time, you could see him when you want him. Save for when it comes to work, but how hard is it to change the shifts you have with him? Pretend like it was the boss's idea. And when the boss asks you why, pretend like you're sick of working all the time. Not that it's any of his business, but you know he'll ask. He's a nosy bastard.

You're acutely aware of the tingling in the pit of your stomach. Your hand splays against the back window while the other winds through grease-slicked locks. He hums, and you whine, letting the muscles in your body clench. You start thanking God that He gave you enough sense to park in the back where it's dark as sin with the windows rolled up. The radio drones out some song, and the way it seems to float over your head reminds you of air. Sticky, humid, summertime air that has a habit of leaving you at three a.m. And you can't sleep when it's cold.

When he presses a spit-slicked finger into you, your body shakes. You grip his other wrist tightly, feeling a flood of incoherent sounds run from your lips. All the solid materials inside of you start to evaporate, melding into a liquid-y substance. It collects between your joints, leaving a sticky residue on the inside of your skin. You're molded to the seat, breathing too fast and saying his name over, and over, and over, letting him know that you _hate _it when he leaves this until last. You always, _always _cum too quickly.

This won't be any different. He finds that spot, and as a flood of white washes out your vision, you can't remember why you ever thought there was something wrong. This how it ought to be, with your head thrown back, your shirt bunched up and sticking to you. You ought to be completely wound up like this, knowing that when you're with him, you're godless. And that scares you.

So does the way you let his name fall from your lips. It makes you feel vulnerable, and it reminds you that, for the time being, he's the one in control.

You can't stand it. You yank his hair and grit your teeth, bracing yourself against what should be a sweet release. But like the inside of his mouth it's sour. You can taste him the same way he can taste you, except _he_ swallows. He knows how it twists your insides around when he does that because you think it's disgusting.

Dragging your palms across the seat, you bite on your bottom lip, trying to unclench your muscles. Through half-lidded eyes, with your head cocked slightly to the side, you watch him run his tongue over your hip and give you that infamous grin of his. The same one that's reserved to make girls swoon and guys despise him. He has the audacity to use it on you, and you want to smack the smug look off his face because he knows he caught you off guard. Now you're gawking at him, trying to breathe, watching as he cleans you off—with his sleeve, for crissake—like he's some sort of gentleman.

And even though you want to tell him to stop touching you, you don't. You pull him up to your level and let him slip his hands under your shirt as he kisses you. His fingers trail down your sides, causing you to shiver, and the inside of his mouth is too slick for your liking. It's sticky in some places, and you swear you might start gagging at the way his tongue feels, but instead of pushing him off of you, you breathe against his mouth and fist at the hair on the back of his head. He looks hopeful, like maybe he just won you over and righted his wrong.

The guilt pools and burns in the bottom of your stomach. He rests his head on your chest, and you stare at the ceiling, absently fingering through his hair. You breathe heavily.

"We oughta get goin'." You cringe against the shattered silence, watching beads of condensation roll off the outsides of the windows. Beyond the glass is a black abyss and you don't want to move for fear of shattering that too.

He lifts his head to look at you, scowling because he isn't ready to go home. There's still that race with the Kings and Shepard's boy, and you have yet to get your hands on bottle of anything. "It ain't even twelve yet, Steve."

But you don't care. You've disturbed the universe enough for one night and you just want this all to be over. You could put a stop to everything right this second, but he's looking at you with those liquid eyes, and like the silence and the darkness, you shatter. Grimacing, you push through his hair, wondering when he got so good at whatever it is he's doing. Because that stare is penetrating every wall you've put up like they're nothing. And you can only build yourself up so many times before it starts to get tedious. You're used to this, but not from him.

Shoving him back by his shoulders, you narrow your eyes and set your jaw. "I don't care what goddamn time it is," you growl, pulling your jeans up around your waist, "we're done."

"Can't we go down and see who won?" he asks, leaning against the door. "I bet half my fucking cheque on that race..."

As you crawl into the driver's seat, you mutter something inaudible and grind your teeth together. "If it'll get you to shut the fuck up." And then you down the rest of a half-finished Coke to wash the night's taste from your mouth.

He slides into the passenger's seat and rolls his window down while you grope around for the keys. When you can't find them, he scoffs and shakes his head, turning a disgusted look on you. And you'd feel almost bad if you weren't in this situation.

"What's your problem?" He folds his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow at you. "The keys are in the ignition, Steve."

Of course they are. You wipe your hands on your pants and roll your shoulders, telling yourself to relax. Once you get him home, you can sneak in through Evie's bedroom window and let her take your mind off of him.

"Maybe you should tell me—"

"I don't wanna talk about it." You turn the engine and rub your face, listening to him shift next to you. He shuts the radio off and leans forward, staring hard at the side of your face.

"Steve..."

You're ready to sock him. Break his jaw and leave him here so he can find his own way home and you can forget him faster.

"Ain't it past your fucking bedtime?" You turn your head just enough to glare at him—to let him know that you're not into playing games. "I'm sure your brother's off his ass worrying about you."

Then he gets this look on his face that makes your throat dry and rests his elbow on the dashboard like he's some sort of suave genius.

"I'm _sure _yours is too," he sneers.

You open the car door and throw up.


End file.
